Fifteen's Footnotes
by Annie Blythe
Summary: Reflections and drabbles, Sam/Andy-centric. Every chapter can be read independently.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So it seems that every time I sit down to write a chapter for "Firsts," Sam clamors into my brain and demands gratification in the form of some retrospective fic. This story will house such reflections, which currently crowd my RB notebook. Different POVs, 500-2000 words each. _

* * *

><p>He knows.<p>

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, the bang of the gun that jolted him into action, springing from the block to run a race he hadn't, in good conscience, signed up for. Soles slapping the pavement, calves burning. He's squinting against the glare, but for a singular moment, he has the baton and he pushes forward.

**[the beginning.]**

A warm summer day, he thinks, when this began. Her grin, bright like white laundry on a clothesline, and his mind, clear like the air around it.

He knows he has to pace himself. Run too fast, burn out too soon, lose her. Run too slow, and she disappears from his line of vision. Lose her again.

He regulates his breathing, adopts a comfortable stride, and eases into the route.

Somewhere along the way, the course becomes a steeplechase. Hurdles, obstacles. He has no training, no experience in this area.

His body is better-prepared than his brain, but all the same… He hesitates.

A part of him thinks he's not cut out for this, and he stalls out.

Muscle atrophy.

Annoyed, he considers throwing in the towel entirely.

**[the middle.]**

He wants to stop.

He can't.

He can't resist the heady rush of adrenaline, its inexplicable pull. Endorphins burst into spontaneous applause like spectators; _keep going, keep going, don't give up yet_.

He gets his second wind.

Inevitably, paths cross. Her course was like a hidden trail on a leafy, shaded road, intersecting when he least expected, and for a moment, throwing his game entirely.

Constancy wins. There's something to that "slow and steady" idea.

This time, they're running side by side.

He thought he knew what the finish line would look like – Heart, like a jackhammer in his chest, beating fast. Breathless. Every part of him aching.

Something he didn't anticipate? A runner's high he can't shake and happiness beyond his wildest dreams.

The finish line looks better and better with each passing moment.

They're crossing it together.

**[the end.]**

Here's the thing, though: What happens when the race is over?

A part of him never thought he'd finish this race. He didn't plan ahead, _never plans ahead_, his mind corrects. But now…

But now.

_He knows. _

He can't identify the start, sure, but he knows where he wants this to end. There are few certainties in life, probably even fewer for a cop, but glancing to the passenger side of his cab...

He knows that she is one of them.

Humming quietly, she reaches for the dial in his truck. Fiddles with the knobs and buttons, searching for a music station, fingers tapping impatiently.

He sees her hand, and his body freezes, the images flooding his brain.

_Her hand._

He imagines what it would look like with a diamond on it. Delicate and understated; nothing too gaudy or overwrought. Nothing that would compete with her natural beauty, just enhance it.

Imagines a gold counterpart on his own hand, a promise to her that the whole world can see.

Imagines a life where finish lines aren't the focus, but milestones are.

A house. Kids. His-and-Her towels and coffee mugs and sides of the bed and rocking chairs on the porch and a whole lot of other things that sound ridiculous in his head, but strangely, make a lot of sense where she is concerned.

"**Sam**," she says, in a tone that makes him think it's not the first time. She shakes him from his daydream, and he hurriedly swallows, his mouth dry.

"Timmies?" she prompts hopefully, a hidden smile on the corner of her lips. "Please?"

It hits him, suddenly. Fleeting thoughts, actualized.

And he hears it: _You, me, richer, poorer, sickness and health, 'til death do us part._

"Yeah," he says, a slow exhale working its way from deep inside his chest. "Yeah, ok."

"Great," she answers, squeezing his leg. "I'm dying for a cup of coffee."

It's her left hand resting on his thigh.

He glances down briefly and smiles.

**[the beginning.]**


	2. Chapter 2

_"We got quarantined for SARS in '03. You know what happened? Snack machine ran dry, Jerry started growing himself a goatee, and I took everybody's money in poker."_

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue. (But seriously. How great was the emoting in 2x08?)_

* * *

><p><strong>[Poker Face.]<strong>

Undercover work?

It's all about control.

He controls his reaction: The set of his jaw, the words that slip from his mouth. They sound casual, yes, but they're deliberate. Intentional. He's careful in that respect.

He controls his temper: Suppresses anger. Feigns amusement. Conceals disgust. Just about the only thing that remains involuntary is the beat of his heart and the rhythmic inhale-exhale of breath, but even that…

Well, he's had to regulate that, too.

He has a commanding presence, but on the job, he respects the hierarchy. He has a spine, but he knows when to be subordinate.

Bad guys like deference. Builds trust.

He bluffs with the best of them. No visible tells: Straight-faced lies and half-truths, steady hands and unblinking eyes.

He dispenses distorted, misleading backstories with the calculated composure of the world's best con. He can pinpoint his opponent's weaknesses, use them to his advantage.

He can make a clean sweep of the poker table for the exact same reason.

He's always been good at bluffing.

* * *

><p>Propping a foot on the edge of the chair, he takes a <em>smacking<em> bite of his apple and cradles the headphones to his ear.

He shakes his head, biting back a laugh. Diaz is eager like a puppy and about as casual as a tuxedo. Per Andy's instructions, he is pushing and prodding with the hope that Blue Guy will slip.

Sam has to admit, there's a certain poetry to this surveillance: Easy laughs and matching grins, the two of them pursuing a case together. It's a comfortable, familiar dynamic, one he had missed in recent weeks. She has that fire tonight, a steely glint to her eyes that tips him off immediately. Not even quarantine is going to stop her.

She's following a lead, and he's following her.

No one can say Sam Swarek doesn't have his partner's back.

And this case? Well, he has a perfectly legitimate reason for blowing off the poker game.

The pot will be waiting for him in a few hours, anyway.

(If he doesn't get to it? Well. There'll be other games.)

He's happy to see her laughing again.

Her smile is its own reward.

* * *

><p><em>If they were my cards, I would have checked-raise, smooth call, and taken the lead on the turn.<em>

He registers vague disbelief, looking to Oliver for confirmation.

His head swivels back toward her, and he can't stifle the incredulity. Admiration, really. A wry, amused grin threatens to overtake his face, and he fumbles for the gum in his mouth, grasping at distraction.

No gum to be found.

_Right_. He was, uh, eating an apple.

Color him…

Intrigued.

Impressed, definitely impressed. Maybe a few other things.

On the right girl, poker prowess might make him a little, uh…

Well, it's a trait he definitely doesn't _hate_.

Full of surprises, that Andy McNally.

It's getting a little harder to remain impassive.

* * *

><p>She takes a sip of coffee, but her eyes follow the movements in the holding cell.<p>

His eyes follow her.

She's focused. In the zone. Intent on gleaning the slightest clue from Blue Guy's words.

_How long has it been? Eighteen, nineteen months?_ She's gotten more confident. Relaxed posture but rapt attention.

It's attractive.

His mind wanders.

It's easy to listen to the conversation. It's much harder to watch the camera footage.

He finds himself watching her instead.

She doesn't look any different than usual. Neat brown ponytail. Unruly bangs. Standard issue, long-sleeve uniform.

Of course, barring her brief confession in Interview One (she really does need an axe), she's been in attack mode all day. Yelling at the hot-and-heavy couple in front of the store. Cuffing Blue Guy. Ranting about emotional displays.

Her tenuous grasp on her temper had slipped at Blue Guy's nudging. He was happy to see it go. He welcomes the return of snappish, irritable Andy. It's a far cry from somber heartache or forced nonchalance, and for that, Sam is grateful.

Now, determination replaces frustration: The endgame motivates her. _Let's get this guy._

She's resilient, and resilience is its own shade of attractive.

_Everything about this damn girl…_

Honestly, he gets a little lost in her.

His heart stutters, and he stares a beat too long. A split second later, his brain catches up.

He realizes he's at work.

Adjusts his expression to one of casual indifference.

Returns his gaze to the monitor.

His brain is now blank. He can only hope his face is, too.

* * *

><p>He's back at the poker table, one eye on the deck and the other on his partner.<p>

Removed from her immediate vicinity, he can breathe more easily.

Sitting next to her, he had been transparent. Obvious. He's not keen on blatant concessions to emotion, particularly not in a room full of coppers.

For a second there, he had been caught in an alluring, hazy world of sensation. Her dark eyes had clouded his vision, the lingering scent of her shampoo wafting toward his nose...

He's definitely overdue for some time at the poker table. He takes a seat across from Jerry, intent on covering his tracks. A little distance is in his best interest. He could use a break. From her. From _this._

She is quick to reel him in again: _You know the guy that was beat up? Is he a branch manager? So he's responsible for mortgages, loans…? Maybe he was targeted._

Huh. If Blue Guy 'took it back,' then…

She may be on to something.

He heads for the phone, punching the number for 27 Division. At the very least, they can email the mug shot and have an officer dispatched to Victoria Mercy. Maybe the branch manager can ID Blue Guy. It seems like a solid plan of action.

Until she practically leaps over the desk.

_No! Hang up! Hang it up, hang it up!_

He's thrown for a loop.

It's, uh, not the first time. Not even the first time today.

She's a box of Froot Loops, that one.

He stares at her with patent concern, his expression a severe mix of annoyance, doubt, and bewilderment. He can't wait to hear this explanation.

_Just… listen. We're on quarantine, right? And as far as we know, this might be our last case, so… Do we really want to give it up?_

His reaction is knee-jerk.

There's an affectionate grin edging onto his face, a little bit impressed and a lotta bit fond.

Frank could issue a cease-and-desist order, and it wouldn't do a damn thing to stop his face from bursting with decidedly tender pride.

If this is their last day, she's not going down without a fight.

It's another check for Andy McNally, closet poker enthusiast. She's dealt a shitty hand, but she's got nerve.

She refuses to fold.

* * *

><p>Sitting at the table with Shaw and Barber, he thinks about the connection between poker and UC. There's a lot of correlation, actually. The method by which one plays a hand is remarkably similar to how one operates in the field.<p>

Jerry is a detective; he relies on sharp eyes – His focus is observation, not concealment. He can hypothesize and infer, but he's never spent time learning to hide his own reactions.

Undercover? Jerry would stick out like a sore thumb. You could dress him down, sure, but his tell is in the way he carries himself, the set of his shoulders as he walks across a room. Strip him of his designer suit, expensive watch, and the moisturizing cream he vehemently swears belongs to Nash, and Jerry is an amateur at the World Tour of Smugglers and Drug Lords.

Ollie fares better. Average build, discreet and unassuming. He knows how to blend. He won't call attention to himself, but he's not much of a risk-taker, either.

UC is all about risks. Danger. Living in a near-constant state of suspicion; evaluating everything by the threat it poses to your identity. You put your life on the line.

Sometimes it pans out. Sometimes it doesn't.

Huge stakes and narrow margins of victory.

So, yeah. Ollie can blend. But he's got a wife and three daughters to think about, so he bets moderately and walks a beat. Risks are for guys without commitments. Guys like Sam.

It's only in recent months that commitments have seemed less like strings and more like connections. Links to something greater than himself. Bonds that aren't restraints or chokeholds, but gateways to something raw and human and _new_.

It's not bad counting on someone; having someone count on you. There's a comfortable security, a mutual reassurance. It's actually kind of nice, a shred of normalcy in the crazy world of law enforcement.

_Partners_, for instance. There's a commitment he can get behind.

Partners who are partners?

Maybe it's something worth exploring. Something worth betting on.

* * *

><p>More often than not, he's amused by the vehemence with which she tackles cases. Or, you know, people.<p>

She doesn't give up easily. No place for passive police in the Andy McNally Handbook.

Fiery combatant, electric warrior, tenacious fighter: The heart of gold and disarming smile appear when you least expect them, and the effect is nearly crippling.

You can try to prepare for it, but it hits with all the blunt force of a kick to the chest.

That's why her attitude in recent weeks has bothered him. This silent grief, tempered with emphatic denial and casual dismissal. _Things were moving too fast; we're slowing it down._

She may have improved since the Mermaid Lounge ordeal, but she doesn't have a natural gift for bluffing. Anybody who cares about her is gonna figure it out. Frankly, her poker face is terrible.

But today? The spark returned. When the call came in, he started to see traces of the old Andy.

A fire he knows. A fire he just might lo-

Regardless.

He welcomed the hard, unyielding tone she took with those randy kids. Silently cheered at her blatant annoyance. Of course, he baited her with a surprised "_Wow_," because Sam Swarek wouldn't let her attitude slide without comment.

(No matter what he felt on the inside. No matter how happy he was to see her color return, the signs of life and spirit and obstinacy.)

* * *

><p>He's a confident guy. He doesn't hide behind a false pretense of modesty. He can acknowledge his talents as well as his faults, and he likes to think he's self-aware.<p>

He can lay the bravado on thickly, sure, but it's part of his charm. He can cop to fleeting moments of idiocy in his rookie years, but on the job, he is a man with few chinks in the armor.

He is a man who knows his strengths.

If you asked him two, three years ago? He thought he knew his weaknesses, too.

He chases criminals and the occasional shot of whisky.

He doesn't chase women.

Or, uh – He didn't.

He didn't use to do a lot of _whatever this is_.

He catches himself staring a lot more. Smiling. Eyes cut over to hers to see if she's laughing or provoking, working or relaxing, fixing her hair or sipping a beer or maybe…

Watching him with the same mirrored intensity.

He wonders when he became so obvious.

* * *

><p>He's always been good at bluffing.<p>

Straight-faced and smooth-talking until... Well, until she sat down at the table.

That control he boasts? Gone with the crook of an eyebrow and the barest hint of mirth on her lips.

He's a good player, sure, but this round?

She holds all the cards.

* * *

><p><em>AN: __Rewatch/check out Sam's reaction when Andy says, "This might be our last case, so... Do we really want to give it up?" It's a good one, I promise._


	3. Chapter 3

**[Beauty.]**

"C'mon, McNally. You know how pretty you are."

His tone is light, casual and tinged with vague amusement, and she thinks he probably meant to say it offhandedly.

It's not like she hasn't heard it before, a requisite compliment without any real weight, except…

Except his eyes are serious. He has the gift of broadcasting singular emotion behind dark irises, this _look _that sears her. Lights every nerve in her body until she's practically humming, a nervous ball of energy with a smile for days. She walks a tightrope between professionalism and _caution to the wind_, and she's at the point where maybe she just wants to fall to one side. Because he'd be there, safety net in hand, ready to catch her.

Everything about his posture screams relaxed, but the eyes have it.

_You know how pretty you are._

She swallows thickly, averting her gaze.

* * *

><p>The thing is, she doesn't.<p>

Conceivably, yes. She knows she's attractive, but Andy McNally is not a picture of womanhood and femininity and grace. Sometimes her head seems a little too small for her body, and she still gets a sprinkling of freckles in the summer (It's the Irish blood), and sometimes she worries about her arms, sinewy muscles like a teenage boy. She's not, like, _unblessed_ in certain areas, but she's spent most of her life in sports bras and jeans. Guys still notice (they always notice), but that's usually _all_ they're noticing.

Her broad shoulders are a testament to her fitness, and she's strong – she _knows_ that – but all women have insecurities about their bodies, and it's just… different, alright?

It's different when someone you care about notices.

Someone who knew you for two years without seeing you take all your clothes off.

Someone who's seen your eyes fill with tears and your nose get red, even as you fight to maintain your composure. (She's not a pretty crier, that's another thing she knows. Hot, messy tears. Nose like a faucet. Bursts of color, angry and red, staining her face beneath puffy eyes.)

Someone who's been equal parts _proud of_ and _annoyed with_ you. Someone who can make you laugh and can piss you off, easy grins and sharp retorts in turn.

Someone who knows your worth, personally and professionally.

Someone who values loyalty and has your back, come what may.

* * *

><p>She wonders why it means more this time.<p>

Maybe because he didn't insinuate that she was beautiful from the beginning. He didn't lean over too closely at a party; he didn't offer to buy her a drink at the bar or a coffee from the student union. He didn't invade her space with variations of "Hey, beautiful," and "You're hot, you know that?" She shudders briefly, a Pavlovian response to frat houses and drunken whispers and maybe some memories from her _too-much-eye-makeup-made-out-with-the-wrong-guy_ stage.

She's used to _lines_, calculated degrees of suaveness, equal parts mystery and audacity. Guys who are aloof enough to pique your interest. Guys who turn on the charm to keep you coming back for more.

She wonders why it's different this time.

Maybe because when she met him, he was the opposite of _charming_. Rude, mean, and heaping on a healthy dose of guilt for something that wasn't her fault. He worked his way through macho insults, _girl guide_ and _bambi-eyed_ and the most patronizing form of _sweetheart_ she's heard in recent years.

It was infuriating, really.

Looking back, she doesn't know when it happened. The shift. When she went from despising his arrogance to noticing his thoughtfulness.

Stupid things like fixing her coffee and remembering her birthday and making a show of how much paperwork she was going to have to do, only to split it with her so she could go home at a decent hour. Stopping routinely at a convenience store before they were due for a stakeout, just so she could grab a water bottle and some Sour Patch kids. Greeting her with a wide smile, and on days she really needed it, a good word for Luke. (Which, well. She's sure that didn't taste sweet at the time, but he did it anyway.)

Not-so-stupid things like supporting her on the Calisiak case. Exonerating her dad. Fixing a set of pipes for a woman who had just lost a son. Letting her punch the crap out of him after her fiancé cheated. He didn't agree with all her judgments, that's for damn sure, but he trusted her to make them: He backed her up when she made rookie mistakes, ill-informed decisions that bore far-reaching consequences.

He's different, that's all. Different than she expected.

Maybe you can't judge a book by its cover, because when you open that Kerouac novel, you just might find _101 Jokes_ nestled in the hollow.

* * *

><p>The tense set of her shoulders tips him off, and he steps back, keen on giving her space so she doesn't run.<p>

(She can read him, too.)

"McNally," he says softly. "That wasn't a jab."

"I _know_," she replies, with more heat than she'd planned.

(It's just a lot. It's a lot.)

He stares at her silently, his eyes sweeping over face. His gaze is probing and grave, and she shifts uncomfortably beneath it.

He nods slowly, taking another step back, but he doesn't drop his eyes. "Okay."

She fusses with her watch nervously, tilting her head toward the antique-style screen that separates the open floor of her condo. "I'm just gonna go set the table; if you can keep an eye on the kitchen timer…" She lets the rest of the sentence dangle, quickly sliding past him.

Folding the napkins much more intricately than the occasion requires (really, it's just the two of them, and they're eating on her coffee table), she exhales deeply. It's not the newness of this thing that scares her – it _IS_ Sam after all, familiar and solid and dependable – but the _intensity_ overwhelms her. The intensity of her feelings, her investment, how suddenly and effortlessly her five year plan seems to have changed…

She closes her eyes briefly, hands resting on her forehead.

It's only when she hears a throat clear that she raises her gaze and sees him, two plates in hand, standing over her.

"You alright there, copper?" he says, casually gruff but with a discernable hint of teasing. Her face lightens at the gesture, and she can't help but mirror the twitch of a grin on his face.

"All clear," she says, accepting the proffered plate with a tiny smile. "I'm good."

Settling on the floor next to the couch, he sweeps a hand over her back, rubbing her shoulders gently. Her fork is halfway to her mouth when he speaks, his voice calm and sure.

"It may take a while to get used to, you know. Doesn't mean I'm gonna stop saying it."

She turns to him, unintentionally biting her lip as a stray noodle falls back onto her plate.

He shrugs, thumbing at her jaw before dropping his hand. "You _are_."

Cool as ever, he picks up his fork and starts eating, the light scratch of metal against mismatched stoneware the only sound in the apartment.

She stares at him for a long moment.

Wonders if this falls under his definition of "normal."

Well.

It's a normal she could live with, she thinks.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Missy Peregrym is a beautiful woman, and by no means do I intend to suggest otherwise. Any reference to her "flaws" is purely the product of character introspection. Girl is PRETTY. And buff._

_Comments are welcome, as always!_


	4. Chapter 4

_"Hey, uh. Look, I just wanted to say that I – I know that I've got a plan, you know, and it's a great one, but… Screw it. Okay, screw the plan. Because I don't want to save the good candy for later anymore, you know? I wanna drink the champagne now, and… Okay, you've got three weeks, right? So let's make 'em count. Starting tonight. I'm coming over."_

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[Waiting.]<strong>

Eight cracks on the sidewalk.

Forty-two floorboards on his porch.

Seventy-six minutes.

She's counted them all.

Back resting against the faded porch column, she shuts her eyes, rubbing at heavy lids with the heel of her palm. After a long moment, she slumps forward, stretching her legs out and sighing in quiet exasperation. _Fifteen more minutes_, she thinks, _I can handle fifteen more minutes_.

Willing him to come home, she pulls her black wool coat tightly around her – a last-ditch effort to combat the wind. For the fifth time in as many minutes, she laments the fact that she doesn't own a car.

When she graduated from the Academy, it hadn't seemed necessary. Her apartment was within walking distance from the barn, and when she and Luke were living together… Well, she never had to worry about getting to and from work.

Now, flexing cold fingers inside her mittens, she wished she had reconsidered her budget. She could be sitting in the warm interior of a new (_well_, used) sedan, reclining against the cushioned headrest, waiting for him. Not waging a one-woman war against the bitter chill of the Toronto air.

She's never been particularly good at waiting. Lunch lines. Exam results. College acceptance letters. Traffic. Anything remotely resembling a doctor's office.

_Time and space._

(She won't begin to examine any residual, psychological implications of that disaster.)

On-demand movies, take-out food, "_Starting guard at 5'6, Andrea McNally_." That's her speed. No sidelines, no waiting, just – Boom. Action.

It's part of the reason the copper lifestyle was appealing. Except …

She's not so much a woman of action as a woman freezing her butt off, waiting to tell her partner/former TO/sometimes friend/definite romantic interest that she is ready. Ready to drink copious amounts of champagne and gorge herself on good candy for the next three weeks.

Headaches and stomachaches seem far preferable to heartache, the cost of staying silent. She's made up her mind: Three weeks is better than none.

It's the neighbor who finally prompts her to move. A woman who keeps flipping the porch light on and peering through some seriously hideous chenille curtains, staring at Andy's huddled form.

She glances at her watch again and exhales slowly.

"You'll see him in the morning," she says to no one, a brief whisper that's swallowed by the wind. Hoisting herself up, she glances down at her phone before pocketing it. She's not going to call him again. No reason to start out – _whatever this is_ – looking needy and desperate and impatient. Fussing with her scarf, she offers silent thanks to Frank that she's not on the _early_-early shift tomorrow. There's still time to sleep.

(_If _she can fall asleep. She's been buzzing with this raw, nervous energy all night.)

She tries not to think of how this night _should_ have gone. Images she had pictured during the taxi ride over, spurred on by long-repressed memories of _that_ night – Dark room, candles, his hands everywhere. Blushing, she had pushed a few bills at the cab driver, earning a quizzical look from him before she leapt from the seat and slammed the door.

Bounding up his steps, she had knocked with all the restraint of a bull in a china shop. All the while, her mind raced. _Had he gotten her voicemail? Would he be... _Honestly, she doesn't know what word she's looking for... _Ready? Interested? Receptive?_

(Yes, definitely. Obviously. Okay, maybe not _obviously_. He's never been forthright exactly, just sent her a lot of heated, loaded looks she has trouble dissecting. But probably. Maybe. Right?)

She needs to stop overthinking.

_Deep breath, McNally_. She can practically hear him. His voice low and rough as he leans against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. A slow, lazy smile on his face, right before he tugs her wrist and pulls her inside…

She sighs, stepping off the porch. It's too late to call Traci, and besides, she doesn't want to have to explain all this. Whatever this is. Standing outside Sam Swarek's house like a fool, when he clearly isn't home. It's a shame she doesn't have a trench coat and a boombox, because Sam might be the type to appreciate a little Peter Gabriel. Not that he would ever cop to it.

(God, where _WAS_ he? It's not like they're working different shifts tomorrow; he has to be awake in a few hours, too.)

Resigned, she uses her teeth to tug off a mitten. Extracting her phone from her pocket, she punches in the number for the cab company.

The distance to Traci's is manageable, and if it were a nicer night, she would walk it. After sitting on Sam's porch for over an hour, however, she's craving the luxury of a warm car heater. Besides, she can just imagine what Mrs. Nash would say if she turned up at dawn, a human popsicle, all because she walked home.

(She can imagine what Sam would say, too. Or rather, how he would look. Giving her the once-over to confirm she was okay, he'd devolve into his patent _I-didn't-say-anything-but-my-face-says-it-all _expression. The _sometimes-McNally-you-can-be-so-monumentally-stupid_ look.)

He really needs to get out of her head.

Tilting her face up, she stares at the night sky and waits for the taxi to arrive.

An unbidden image of Sam flashes before her eyes – His face by the ambulance, right after they found the little boy.

For a moment she thinks that maybe...

Maybe she's not the only one who has been waiting.

Resolute, she wills the morning to come quickly.


	5. Chapter 5

"_I'm gonna miss you."_

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[Restless.]<strong>

He's being selfish; he knows that.

It's risky. It's stupid.

_It's freezing outside_.

Her teasing lilt echoes inside his head; those lips, curved with the familiar hint of a pout, distract him.

(Honestly? He knew he couldn't refuse her. If early mornings are hallmarks of admission and truth, then he'll be candid. He didn't want to refuse her. He wanted a reason for her to stay.)

She lies next to him now, chest rising and falling regularly. It's silent in the apartment, save for the wind howling outside J.D.'s window. Sliding an arm underneath his head, he crooks his elbow and stares at the ceiling.

She's asleep, curled into his side. He would have pegged her for a messy sleeper – moving and twisting and rolling, a product of her_ "I've always had trouble sleeping in other beds, Sam,"_ – but she is draped over his left arm, still as the grave. The warm weight of her body presses into the mattress, and it's already familiar. Companionable. Shutting his eyes briefly, he focuses on her soft, rhythmic breathing.

The weather is their excuse – _practically inhuman_ and all – but he's almost certain he could have found another reason. Another reason for minutes to become hours and that grin to stake permanent residence on her face.

_Just one night._

Flushed cheeks and swollen lips and her wide, plaintive eyes.

It's a lethal combination, he thinks.

* * *

><p>Lying here in the stillness of early morning, he doesn't recognize this breed of impatience. He wants to catch Brennan, wants this case to be over, wants to be back in uniform…<p>

He wants her to stay a lot longer than one night.

Their last goodbye flashes before his eyes. Long, lazy kisses by the staircase while they waited for her taxi. Her fingers gripped his t-shirt tightly, one palm flat against his chest. He could feel her smile against his mouth, the last vestige of Sam's existence before he was forced to flip the switch.

It's, uh, nice to be Sam again.

Blowing out a breath of air, he trails a hand over her back lightly. He adjusts the sheet around her, stilling as she sighs quietly in her sleep and moves closer.

Hard to believe it's only been four days.

(Four nights he had come home to an empty loft. The apartment was suddenly too spacious; her absence, a palpable void.)

He didn't realize how much...

_How much._

For a lone wolf, he's been, well…

Lonely.

* * *

><p>His brain works overtime in the darkness, and he wonders if McNally's condition is contagious. Hang around her long enough, and you catch it, too.<p>

He can hear Sarah's voice in his head, the very first time she told him about Will. "He's, uh, soft-spoken but forthright. Sweet. And persistent, _god_ is he persistent. He didn't give up on me." A smile had crossed her lips, her features softening as she played with the coffee mug in her hands. "Loaded looks are for TV shows, not real life. Sometimes you need to tell someone how you feel, you know?"

(He can't explain why his brain has chosen this moment to replay the conversation.)

He's been pretty clear, right? He _did_ call her tonight. She has to know that this isn't… Casual.

Not for him.

He's never been very vocal about his feelings, but that's just because their timing was off, right?

(Training officer from the get-go, and then Callaghan…)

But she came back, didn't she? So logically...

He pinches the bridge of his nose, lost in thought. If ever there were a time to think and act sensibly, it was that half-second before he punched in her number. A number burned into his brain, because it sure as hell wasn't programmed into his disposable phone.

The rational part of him - and that part is shrinking with every passing moment - tries to explain it away. Justify this ache that has burrowed into his chest. It's fresh and deep and almost overwhelming in magnitude, and he's not sure when he became _this_ guy.

Maybe it's the craving for release. Working in the warehouse all day, keeping tabs on Brennan… He's itching for a little normalcy, a break from the stress.

Maybe it's the desire to hear stories from Fifteen. It's easier to pretend he's not in deep cover that way. He'll catch up with Shaw at the next karaoke night, heckling him from the audience as Ollie belts some Rogers. Beer in hand, Sam will have one eye on the stage, the other on…

(Well.)

He sighs, scrubbing his jaw as his gaze settles on her.

Maybe it's the realness of Andy in this setting, something true and honest in a world that's entirely contrived. It's a sharp contrast – unfamiliar sheets, books that don't belong to him, sleek, modern furniture – and _Andy_. Warm and real and smiling so much, it's infectious.

Maybe…

Maybe she's held a spot in his heart a lot longer than he's willing to admit.

* * *

><p>She shifts against him, and his mouth tugs upward as she pulls him from his reverie.<p>

"Hey," she murmurs sleepily, her lips moving against the bare skin of his shoulder. "You awake?"

"Only one of us can be Sleeping Beauty, McNally," he teases quietly, his words lighter than the thoughts that preoccupy his brain. "And you pull off the tiara better."

She smiles at that, her eyes still shut. "Mm, okay."

"It's early," she adds between yawns. Her eyes flutter open as she slides an arm across his waist, looking for confirmation.

He nods silently, thumbing at her jaw before working his hand through her hair. "Yeah. Still dark out."

"You get a lot of natural light in here, I bet," she says quietly, staring at the loft's windows. At his quizzical expression, she suppresses a smile and shakes her head. "Nevermind. Conversation for another day. When we're not, like…pressed for time."

He shrugs, grasping her wrist and tugging her closer. "Okay."

"Thanks for letting me stay," she whispers. Her fingers dance over his shoulder as she settles on top of his chest. He catches the earnestness to her words, the shred of raw emotion that lingers heavily in the air.

"Thanks for staying," he counters softly.

She smiles, slow and wide. "We've still got a few hours, right?"

"A few," he says casually, his hand skimming across her back. "Can't imagine how we'll pass the time…"

Her smile becomes a giggle, and for a second, everything else fades away.

No cover apartment. No suspects. No assumed identities or flights to Appleton or covert phone calls with serious implications.

Just Sam and Andy.

Maybe…

Maybe this _thing_ requires a certain kind of courage. Something no UC op has prepared him for.

(Maybe he'll tell her in the morning.)


	6. Chapter 6

_"Cloths, McNally, get some cloths, or towels, or whatever from the kitchen, alright? He's still alive... Alright, just apply pressure there; that's it. Okay, it's gonna be all right... Look at me, alright? It's gonna be fine; he's still alive... Just stay with me, alright?"_

_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[hello darkness, my old friend.]<strong>

Silence is the worst punishment.

It's that split-second after a gun is fired when everything is still.

It's a near-empty church and mourners around a casket.

It's Sarah's teenage years and the pain in his mother's eyes.

It's the distance between friends and strangers; the fear of risking it all and the resounding echo of disappointment.

(It's the waiting room of a hospital, the pause between heartbeats, and every unspoken feeling he's ever had.)

* * *

><p>It breaks him. It absolutely destroys him to see her like this, red-rimmed eyes and shaking shoulders. He shuts his eyes, tries not to think of her gasping breaths as she repeated his name in the dark kitchen, terror in her voice.<p>

He's been sitting in this sorry excuse for a chair for nearly three hours now. A nurse had kindly suggested he relocate an hour ago: _Sir, there's a waiting room and lounge just down the hall; perhaps it would be better…?_ He had raised his head just long enough to meet her eyes, then pointed to his uniform. After a long moment, she had pursed her lips and departed.

He picks at the plastic lid of his coffee cup, an attempt to busy his hands. The liquid inside is cold now, sloshing ominously. He focuses on the sound, a welcome distraction from the dull pounding in his head.

The ward is quiet, save for the beep of heart monitors and the scratch of pens across clipboards. He stretches his legs in front of him, revels in the satisfying crack of his spine as he shifts in the plastic chair.

He doesn't know where Rosati ended up, and he can't find it in him to care. Tonight, he and Rosati are one in the same: Outsiders. It should breed solidarity, camaraderie even, but they're two different teams – Blonde Soc detective and the Greaser in uniform. Two sets of hands clutching tasteless cups of coffee. Two sets of hands wishing they were holding on to something (somebody) else.

He exhales, bowing his head and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.

Hope is an earnest prayer on his lips.

* * *

><p>He hears the creak of the door and raises his head instinctively.<p>

"Sam," she greets softly, her voice raspy from disuse. Her brow is furrowed, her eyes cloudy with exhaustion, but the surprise in her tone is evident. "What…?"

"Hey," he replies, standing immediately. One hand moves to the back of his neck, rubbing the crick that had developed. "Hey, uh. How's he doing?"

"Stable," she answers quickly, biting her lip. She wrings her hands, seeking any avenue of distraction. "They think he's going to make a full recovery, but if we hadn't found him when we did… All that blood…"

Her voice wavers and she breaks off, wrapping her arms around herself. Closing her eyes, she inhales and releases the breath slowly. "Sam, I… If you weren't there, I don't…" Her eyes grow misty, and she swallows hard. "Thank you."

He nods carefully, his eyes locked with hers.

(He's never particularly liked Callaghan, that much is true. Smug smile and a different rookie every year, but… Well. A copper's house is sacred, a sanctuary from the chaos of his lifestyle. To have it invaded, to have an act of violence committed against you in your own home… _Shit,_ to be a victim of your own gun… He's not an unsympathetic guy. He may not like the guy much, but he certainly feels for him.)

"Can I get you…" His fist curls at his side, his body's unconscious warning, _laissez-faire _and a hint of rebuke. _I'm your partner, not your boyfriend, and I will not be holding your hand_. "Coffee, water… anything?"

"No." She shakes her head, ponytail bobbing. "No, I'm fine."

"Fine?" He repeats softly, the question evident. He takes in her haggard appearance and arches one eyebrow. "_Andy_…"

She shakes her head minutely, pressing her lips together. She draws a breath, and her next words are a ragged whisper. "Maybe not _fine_, but I'll, uh… I'll get there."

He nods silently. "I… if you need anything… _Anything_, McNally, I mean it…"

She gives a soft, sad smile, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. "Thank you. No, Trace brought me a change of clothes before she left, and Frank took my gun and gave me a few personal days, so…"

He thinks for a moment about opening his arms, pulling her close to his chest and letting her seek comfort there.

He knows she would probably welcome it, the physical reassurance.

(He also knows he would be doing it for the wrong reasons.)

She wipes at her eyes furiously, a slow, shaky laugh escaping from her throat. "What a day, huh?"

"Yeah, you could say that," he says hoarsely. Knitting his eyebrows together, he stares at her for a long moment. "He's gonna be fine, McNally. He's got a lot to keep him going, alright?"

She nods, her eyes still glassy.

He moves instinctually, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder. It's a brief concession to physical comfort, and the only indulgence he'll allow. His grip is warm and firm, and she lets out a low, shuddering breath.

"You're going to be fine too, McNally," he says softly.

Her eyes close at his words, and she nods weakly. Her left hand moves to cover his, and he feels the bite of her engagement ring, foreign and cold against the warm skin. It's a stark reminder of where they are; the promises they've made.

After a long moment, he drops his hand and coughs lightly. The motion is enough to prompt conversation on her end, _allergic to silence_ even in hospital corridors.

(There's, uh, maybe another reason silence is the worst punishment.)

When her eyes open, she seems to register that he's in uniform. "You're off-shift now, right?"

"Yeah," he replies, blowing out a breath. "Frank released me for the night; I just have to take off the uni. Return my gun."

She cracks a small smile. "Yeah, you don't want to leave your truck all by her lonesome in 15's parking lot, huh?"

"She'll think I'm ignoring her," Sam deadpans, leaning down to toss his cup in the garbage bin.

"Right," Andy says with a wry grin. Her expression softens, and she clears her throat. "Listen – Thank you for staying, Sam." She shuffles on her feet, crossing her arms over her chest protectively.

He shrugs, avoiding her eyes. "Frank will probably want your statement, but uh. I'm sure he can send someone by tomorrow."

She smiles softly. "Yeah. Probably for the best."

He nods sharply, eyes sweeping over her before he adopts his gruff T.O. voice. "Get some sleep, alright McNally? You're no use to Callaghan if you're the walking dead."

"10-4, sir," she echoes quietly. She fusses with her watch, then her ponytail. "Speaking of sleep, uh… Shouldn't you be heading home? It's, um. Been a long day for everybody."

He thinks about where his head was this morning. The anger that ate away at him; regret disguising itself as rudeness. He can still feel the ache of his jaw, too many sticks of gum with too much force.

He nods in assent, fumbles for keys. "On my way, just wanted to make sure everything was…" He breaks off, studying her. "That, uh. Everybody was okay."

She smiles gratefully, then points to the ICU. "I'm gonna head back inside."

He bobs his head silently and raises a hand in farewell. Scrubbing his jaw, he spins around and heads for the exit. Every step is an effort tonight, his body heavy and his head fuzzy.

"Sam?" Her voice is small in the cavernous hallway, and it stops him in his tracks. He turns slowly on his heel. Sees her frozen by the empty chair, an unreadable expression in her eyes.

"I feel like I can't say it enough…" She swallows thickly. "Thank you. Really."

He accepts her gratitude with a casual nod, far more casual than he feels. He feels exposed under the harsh florescent lights of the hallway, and he backs away with practiced ease, the steps of a man who has never truly been honest with her.

Never been honest with himself.

He struggles to keep his voice light as his parting words span the distance. He's not indifferent – far from it – but his declarations are restricted by the band on her finger.

"Anytime, McNally," he manages with a deep breath. "Anytime."

(The drive home is silent.)


	7. Chapter 7

"_I can't ever come back here. Ever."_

"_No, and you have to go."_

"_Yeah. I do."_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[Realization.]<strong>

It's a strange sort of bliss.

Complicated.

She burrows into the cushioned interior of the cab, directing the cabbie as she settles in. The address she gives is a block away from the Division, far enough to avoid questions from curious co-workers. She won't have to explain where she got the money for the cab, why she would waste her resources when the goal of this mission is to _collect_. The curbside drop-off means a few extra minutes of walking time (and glancing at her watch, she is down to a precious _few_), but she figures it's better to be safe, right?

Plan in place, she closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

The wind whistles outside the cab, harsh and biting. She had felt its sting, those brief steps from JD's apartment to the taxi itself, but the wind had left no visible impression. Cautiously raising a hand to her cheek, she feels warmth instead. Her fingers touch her lips, and she wonders...

Wonders how swollen they appear.

Wonders if anyone will be able to tell.

(Wonders when they might look like that again.)

Despite the circumstances, an unbidden smile creeps onto her face.

He hadn't let her go until the last possible moment. She had run up the taxi fare, lingering in his doorway, mittened hands cradling his jaw. He had kissed her without reservation, unzipping her coat and pressing her close, hands locked on her hips. It should have been hurried, rushed even, given the time.

It wasn't.

She feels a warmth sweeping through her body at the memory. Slow, lazy kisses on his staircase, unspoken promises and wordless admissions, silent pledges with the power to overcome time and space.

* * *

><p>"<em>Just take the money for the cab."<em>

_She wrinkles her nose, gaze flickering between the bills and his face. "It feels, like, wrong to take this. Like it's some kind of payment for… Ugh, you know."_

"_No," Sam replies easily, a twinkle in his eye. "I _don't_ know. Wanna explain it to me?"_

_She shoves his shoulder in exasperation. "_Fine._ I'm only taking this–" she acknowledges, holding up the two bills, "Because I'm saving my winnings for the Barn. I fully intend to pay you back later, okay?"_

_He shakes his head, amused. "Alright. You can write me an IOU slip."_

"_Don't laugh at me," she says, protesting. Her lips twitch suspiciously, and she crosses her arms in a poor attempt to look stern. "I'm just…You know. Honoring my debts."_

"_Debts, huh?" he echoes with a grin. "Well, I should probably write a note for Candace, then. She was kind of a cheap date last night, one beer and... Well. Think she probably deserves a meal. Dinner sometime, if she's game."_

_A smile graces her lips, and she moves a step closer. "Is that right?" she questions slyly. "Huh. Well, I think Candace could be convinced."_

_They're silent for several minutes after that, mouths and hands occupied. It's only t__he distinct hum of an engine, lone sound on an empty street, that penetrates their consciousness._

"_Sam," she whimpers quietly. "I think that's the cab."_

"_Alright," he breathes, angling his mouth for better access. His hands drift across her back, and he pulls her closer. "Probably needs a minute to get situated, so…"_

_She sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering as he sets the pace. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."_

_A few moments later he breaks away, eyes seeking the window pane. His voice is a low rumble when he speaks. "Yeah, that's him."_

_She murmurs affirmatively, tilting his chin back down. "Probably used to long goodbyes, so…"_

_His mouth meets hers, hand sweeping across her forehead as he tucks her bangs behind her ear. "Probably," he agrees, lips moving languidly over her own. His hand drifts to her hip, and he feels the muscles in her cheek shift, a tell-tale smirk growing. It's enough to make him want to shut the door and drag her back inside, forget this whole operation…_

"_Okay," she says breathlessly, pulling back a minute later. Resting her cheek against his, she attempts to slow her rapidly beating heart. "I really gotta go."_

"_Mmhmm," he mumbles, not releasing his grip on her waist. "You _gotta_ go."_

"_Sam…" she drawls halfheartedly, her lips twisted in a smile. "Seriously. I'm so late."_

_He sighs, hands moving to the sides of her jacket. With a careful tug, he zips her coat closed, draping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know."_

"_I'll see you…" she breaks off, looking at him hesitantly. "Just… be safe, okay? Do what it takes to finish the job, but _don't_… Just be smart. You _are_. I know you are, it's just hard seeing you in this setting and knowing I can't… I just wish…" She shakes her head as if hoping to knock some sense into it. Exhaling slowly, she raises her eyes to his. "Ugh. I'm sorry. Just… Be careful. That's all."_

_He nods wordlessly, a smile on his lips. _

"_Beat it," he says finally, head inclined toward the door. "And take care of yourself… _Candace_."_

"_I will," she replies softly. With renewed determination, she steps forward, slipping an arm around his waist. Her lips barely brush his, light and quick, before she turns toward the door. _

"_Thanks for a great night, JD."_

__His smile is the last thing she sees before the door slams.__

* * *

><p>She misses him before he's gone, back to cameras and wires and beers at the Alpine with a silver-haired boss. The burden of knowledge is heavy, this idea that she must be detached and professional for weeks, months... That this separation is <em>real<em>, and despite her penchant for planning, she _doesn't_ know when he'll be done.

It makes something ache in the recesses of her heart.

(She thinks it's probably too early to feel this way.)

Seeing him? It was easier, marginally. Learning that she wasn't the only one affected by absence. Conversation with layers of hidden meaning, _a little lonely_ and _wondering why I got into this business in the first place. _If their bartop conversation wasn't an exercise in "keeping it real," then by all means, she should retire her badge and start selling insurance.

That half-hour when Jamie and Traci were occupied at the pool table? She felt pulled in every direction, schooling her expressions and keeping her cover straight and remaining calm while her adrenaline surged. She knows, without a doubt, that the wild _thumping_ of her heart had little to do with the seedy underbelly of the Alpine and all to do with the man in the black thermal, sitting across from her. The intensity of his gaze, the gravelly timbre of his voice… It swept through her body, lighting every nerve, this weird duality of emotion. She felt steady and shaky, nervous and calm, and when she felt the solid grip of his hand on her shoulder…

Well.

It's possible that she felt _a lot_ of things.

He surprised her.

(She's not complaining.)

He was cautious before his resolve broke, but _even then_…

Gentle. Attentive. Perceptive, and if she's being honest...

(Good. Really, _really_ good.)

Replaying the events in her mind, she realizes it shouldn't be surprising. For all the times she's seen him upset – caustic bite, menacing tone, chilly words and authoritative demeanor – those moments have never eclipsed how attune he is to her emotion, her reactions, the things weighing on her mind. Bad jokes and a pair of boxing gloves, seriously, he _gets _her.

It's nice. Different. _Nice_.

(God, she needs a thesaurus. Or possibly a brain rewire. He's in her head and under her skin and...)

She risks a glance at the cabbie, wondering if he's picking up on any stray thoughts, the ideas that preoccupy her. She doubts it, but even so, now might be a good time to refocus. Transfer her attention to important things.

Like her job, for one.

They've passed the division boundary and are steadily approaching the Barn, so she checks the meter, cash in hand. A quick glance at her watch – _5:52 AM, shit_ – tells her she'll have to jog. Briskly. She makes a mental checklist of all she has to do…

(Sam. Sam. Sam.)

_Seriously, pull yourself together, McNally._

Uniform first, then hair. Boots will take the longest, but she can eliminate some time if she skips her undershirt and leaves her regular bra on. It's not like Boyd's going to send them out on patrol after this, so she should be fine. At the very least, she's grateful for that two-minute body dunk she took while Sam called the cab company...

They pull up to the corner, and with a hurried "Thanks," she throws the money at the driver and hops from the car.

The wind is back and she's running against it, breathless, as her hand digs furiously through all four pockets of her jeans. When she comes up empty, she curses silently. She spares a thought for her locker, hoping she has an extra ponytail tie there... If not, she's out of luck. No time to break into Traci's.

Her boots slap the pavement and she bounds across the parking lot, mind working at warp speed.

_No going back._

It was a promise first, an agreement that they weren't backpedalling, that much is true. But now? The words are a stark reminder of the circumstances that brought them together. This time, _no going back_ has secondary implications. She _can't_ go back. Not to the Alpine, not to his apartment, not to the way things were a few short hours ago.

Like she said: A strange sort of bliss. Complicated.

_Still..._

She recalls how freely he laughed this morning, quiet confessions about Ernie and the way his eyes crinkled at the corner. His soft teasing, stripped of any prickly tones or bravado. Talking about the _universe_, for god's sake, wearing a fond smile, humoring her until the end. She doesn't know that she's ever seen him this carefree, this light, like burden and grief couldn't touch him...

It's a side of Sam she's never seen before.

(It's a side she _wants_ to see, again and again.)

They can't go back, _she_ can't go back, but as she yanks open the door to 15 Division, she knows one thing.

She'll wait.

* * *

><p>She slips into the room, tightening her ponytail as she moves. It's a McNally buzzer-beater, district championship game all over again, three sinking in the net and breath escaping in a giant <em>whoosh<em> as the adrenaline ebbs away.

She smiles at Traci.

Smiles at Dov.

Smiles at _Boyd_, of all people.

It's just that kind of morning.

Her fingers move to her lips unconsciously.

(She can't stop smiling.)


	8. Chapter 8

DISCLAIMER: I do not own_ Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[dating and social cues.]<strong>

He lays his palm flat against her lower back, thumb sweeping over the strip of exposed, tanned skin just above her jeans. She flinches at the contact, nearly jumping out of her skin. She's distracted, that much is evident, and he startled her from reverie.

"Sorry," she gasps, hand flying to her heart. "Sorry, I just–"

"Something the matter, McNally?" he asks mildly. His eyebrows are raised, friendly and innocent, as he meets her gaze. He presses the bottle into her hand, smiling genuinely as he retrieves his own and takes a long pull.

Gesturing to the table, she smiles wryly, and he catches the shadow of dark amusement on her face. She sets her drink on the windowsill, folding her arms across her chest. "You're really loving this, aren't you?"

_Loving something_, he thinks, but doesn't say. Instead, he settles for, "Teaching is instinctive, I told you."

Rolling her eyes at him, she retrieves her stick and stalks to her former position. With an exasperated sigh, she leans against the billiards table and motions him forward. "C'mon, sensei."

The brass in her voice belies the light in her eyes, and he hides a smile. He spares a thought for the Alpine, dwells briefly on blue button-downs and the slight tremor of his hands. He wonders if this is what normal looks like - Jeans and bars, laughs and jabs, each of them wearing tiny, matching grins. Wonders what it is about this girl, how she makes his heart race and stop in one fell swoop. Wonders when she got the power to make him crazier and happier than he's ever been before.

(He thinks it might take a lifetime to figure out.)

The room has a slight haze, a combination of low lighting and five dollar pitchers, and for a moment, he's lost in her. Lost in _this_. The freedom to do and have and _be._

Shaking the fog from his brain, he swallows thickly. His arm circles her waist as he leans forward, hips pressing against her backside.

"Smooth, easy glide," he murmurs quietly, fitting his fingers around hers as he positions the stick. "Fluid as you release. No starting and stopping, no second-guessing, no jerky motions. You gotta play with conviction."

Heat bleeds through her thermal, and he feels warm all over. Their bodies are aligned, and he can feel her heartbeat, every shallow breath she takes as she lines up the shot.

_Boom._

She drops the cue slowly, one hand trailing across the worn, green felt of the table before she turns in his arms. Her face is expectant, and he hides a grin, tilting her chin up.

Her mouth tastes like beer, and she smiles against his lips.

"Oh, I'll play with conviction," she says as she pulls away, eyes full of laughter and something he can't pinpoint, exactly. Whatever it is, it sounds like a promise.

(Promises, he decides, are not such a bad thing.)


	9. Chapter 9

_"You ever wish we were normal?"_

_"What do you mean? We are normal."_

_"You know what I mean."_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[Normal.]<strong>

She wonders if they'll ever be normal.

She knows the beginning _wasn't_ normal – seedy motels and serial killers and undercover apartments and high stake operations and lies rolling off her tongue. Kidnappings and rescues and conduct unbecoming. God, _nothing_ about that was normal. Propositioning her former T.O. _while_ he was in deep cover _while_ he was with his boss _while_ she was conducting her own UC stint (and that was before she knew about the power tools and dismembered bodies and the litter of crimes in Brennan's wake)–

(She never claimed to have great timing.)

But okay, it's not like she's_ averse_ to normal.

Seriously, if the universe wanted to supply 'cute guy at the coffee shop' or 'new, single neighbor' or 'surprisingly handsome blind date' or any number of conceivable RomCom male-types _not_ affiliated with law enforcement, she could be receptive. She could be convinced. She could be wooed and romanced properly, first and second and third dates, drinks after work and lazy kisses on the doorstep and progressive degrees of cleavage and–

_Wooed, really? Nice try, McNally. _

(She's had the good candy, and she knows now that there's no substitute. And whatever, stupid analogy or not: She's not swapping premium for generic.)

Her male-type makes bad jokes and carries a gun and despises the great outdoors, apparently. He stares at her with dark, inscrutable eyes and boasts about his ability to fix cars. He's moody and temperamental, loves his truck like a child, and he should probably invest in Doublemint stock. Lord knows he's pissed at her enough; it would be nice to have some kind of pay-off.

Still.

He knows how she takes coffee and the best way to restore a smile to her face, stupid or not. He lets her haunt the men's locker room and ask silly questions, and he gives advice freely. He colors outside the lines, sure, but he's a proponent of truth and justice, an on-call handyman for grieving mothers and a good-natured sparring partner for emotionally vulnerable coppers. He instructs without condescension and acts with conviction, and in two years of absolute _chaos_ on the job, his support hasn't wavered.

It's easy to identify his shortcomings and the things that make her crazy, but it's even easier to list the things that make Sam a good cop. A good _man_.

The smile and the eyelashes and the insanely attractive arms? Bonuses, all of them. Because the stuff that really matters has little to do with nice eyes and skilled hands and the shadow of a grin on his face.

(Okay. Maybe it has a little to do with the hands. And possibly the dimples don't hurt. The point is, she's not interested in trading him for a different model, flaws or not.)

She thinks the universe has had her number since she busted that crappy lock.

* * *

><p>She acknowledges how abnormal distance is–<p>

At least when it's enforced by your boss. Or, you know, when your job is on the line.

_He's safe,_ she tells herself that first night. A thousand thoughts buzz in a silent room, but one resonates loudest: _He's home, and he's safe and that's enough for now._

(That said, three months is a _long_ time to dwell.)

It's harder than she ever could have imagined. Probing questions from Internal Affairs. A mark on her record. No sympathy from the jury; no opportunity to check on him. She'd love to confirm a few things, e.g., his injuries are healing and he's steering clear of hammers and drafty farmhouses and the irreparable, psychological damage brought on by waterboarding.

(Seriously. Even criminals get a phone call.)

So, on her growing list of the noticeably abnormal: UC rendezvous, lakeside conversations with 'reformed' enforcers, physical assault/torture, forced separation from her _person_, the million feelings that have surfaced as a result of anxiety and guilt, and a looming tribunal on which her reinstatement depends.

There's no guide book, no road map to direct her this time.

_Normal._

It's a pretty foreign concept.

* * *

><p>It takes until the last week of suspension to realize something.<p>

What about this job had been _normal_?

What about this job _was_ normal?

Things were far from normal_, _even before the Alpine. Normal isn't burning a veteran cop on your first day of professional employment, that's for damn sure.

Death literally knocks on her doorstep every week, every _day_. Incinerated laundromats and exploding cars and _storage lockers, _if she's operating in extremes, but there are statistics for routine traffic stops and assault with a deadly weapon, and nothing about that is _normal._

All those attempts at normal before - idyllic house and charming fiancé and the perfect version of happily ever after_ -_ where had that led? Her attempts at planning, at creating and regulating normal, were disastrous.

She had been a far cry from 'normal' during those three months, missing Sam like she was missing a limb, but the promise of seeing him inspires something. Because for the first time in her life, her desire for 'happy' - true, genuine, authentic happiness - outweighs any desire for normalcy. The risk is greater, leaping into this great unknown, but so is the reward.

(When realization dawns, the pill isn't bitter. In fact, it goes down pretty easily, candy-sugar coat and a dry swallow.)

* * *

><p>Maybe, just maybe, normal was never in the cards.<p>

She imagines it's _not_ normal to see your former training officer like this, sitting at your kitchen table with mussed hair and sleepy eyes and a spoonful of Cheerios halfway to his mouth as he yawns.

Reaching for the coffeepot, she refills her mug and silently reflects. It's a series of moments, the journey that brought them _here_. And it's not conventional, sure, but she's happy.

Crossing the kitchen, he drops the cereal bowl in the sink. His hand snakes around her waist as he moves behind her, nuzzling the curve of her throat.

"Sundays are a day of rest," he murmurs in her ear, his voice gravelly and thick with sleep. "Overthinking is outlawed."

"Yeah?" she replies, tilting her chin up as a quiet sigh escapes. "Guess you're gonna have to call the cops."

"One punch of a button," he mumbles, lips trailing across her shoulder insistently. "Just so you know."

She leans back into his bare chest, a smile on her lips. "Shaw at your beck and call?"

He chokes out a laugh, spinning her around.

"Nah," he says with a shrug. "Only the pretty ones get a spot on speed dial. I'd have to scroll through my contact list to find Ollie."

She stares at him for a long moment, lips pressed together in a poor attempt to hide amusement. With an arch of her eyebrow, she bumps her hip against his.

"You're so weird sometimes, you know that?"

(The thing is, she_ likes_ weird, as long as it's with him. She likes it more and more with each passing day.)

Maybe normal is overrated.


	10. Chapter 10

The following scene takes place post-2x12.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue_. (If I did, Oliver and Zoe would have their own spin-off show, _Ollie and Zoe Take Toronto.)_

* * *

><p><strong>[behind every good man…]<strong>

With a heavy sigh, Oliver turns the key in the lock and steps over the threshold of the familiar brick house.

He hears movement from the kitchen, and a moment later, Zoe pads quietly into the hallway. She is dressed in a pale green bathrobe, her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.

_Stayed up_, he notes silently, something tugging inside his chest. _Of course she would, after that text._

"Hon?" Zoe prompts softly. A bitter gust of wind sweeps through the foyer, and she rubs her arms vigorously, shivering. She stares at him for a moment, eyes wide with concern and sympathy. "How–?"

Shutting the door, Oliver kicks off his shoes, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. Opening the hall closet, he reaches for a hanger to hang his coat before turning toward her. His face looks exhausted, and he smiles grimly.

"Hey," he greets, his voice hoarse. Exhaling loudly, he steps toward her, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Sorry I'm so late…"

The glow of the nightlight illuminates the hallway, and she takes silent inventory of his frame, the tight set of his shoulders and the bags under his eyes. Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head minutely. "_Oliver._ You don't have to be _sorry_…"

"Come sit down," she murmurs, tilting her head toward the breakfast nook. She leads him into the kitchen, where half a mug of chamomile tea and a book rest on the table. Collecting them and sweeping them aside, she watches her husband take a heavy seat.

Without another word, she fills a large glass with water and places it before him. Dropping into the chair beside him, she covers his hand with her own.

They sit quietly before she clears her throat, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. Her voice is gentle when she speaks.

"How bad?"

Rotating his palm to link their fingers, he pauses for a beat before the word tumbles out.

"Bad."

His free hand moves to his jaw, rubbing wearily. "Violent exit, good amount of blood. No leads yet. It's not like we're expecting him to pop up in the warehouse tomorrow."

He trails off, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. His eyes move to the kitchen window, to the blue and white gingham curtains framing it. It's hard to believe the number of criminals that lurk just beyond that unassuming, old-world pattern. Zoe had insisted on "a country kitchen in the big city," picturesque and homey, and the curtains were, in her words, "Step one."

_Less picturesque_, he thinks tiredly as he gazes out the window, _when that 'big city' hid a madman who had violently kidnapped your best friend. _

Closing his eyes, he draws a long breath. The slight pressure from Zoe's fingers brings him back to the conversation at hand.

"I don't know, Zo." His voice drops to a whisper. "I just don't know."

"It gets worse," he adds a minute later, rubbing his temple. He chooses his words carefully, struggling to believe they are true, even now. "Something happened between Sammy and McNally."

"His rookie?" Zoe asks, her brow furrowing slightly before realization dawns. "The one he's been after since…?"

"She showed up at the scene, and Jerry had to drag her out, kicking and clawing and screaming. A mess, completely inconsolable."

He raises his head, silently asking Zoe to connect the dots. "She wasn't in uniform. No squad car, no radio. The only way she would know where he was…"

"Is if she had been there before," Zoe finishes quietly, shaking her head. "Oh, Ollie."

He shrugs his shoulders, caught between helplessness and frustration. "They don't know if she blew it, or if something else... I don't know. Takes a lot to be professional and detached, but _this_..."

They sit in silence, house somber and still all around them.

"_Well_," she says finally, her firm tone leaving no room for dispute. "There's no rubric for a situation like this. What you _need_ to do is sleep. So you're fresh for tomorrow and can contribute to whatever task force they assemble."

"I'm not technically on-shift," he answers automatically, running a hand through his thinning hair.

"Has that stopped you before?" she questions with a tiny smile. Standing, she motions to the water in front of him, silently imploring him to drink it. "You need to go in, but you need to be rested."

She lowers her voice as she gazes at him. "If anyone can handle himself in a situation like that…To be smart and resourceful, persuasive if need-be…Sam is a fighter, in more ways than one. He has... He has a lot at his disposal."

Oliver swallows the water in three quiet gulps. "Damn undercover itch. If he hadn't..."

"No stone unturned," she interrupts in a soft, reassuring tone. "That's how 15 works. _Especially_ when it's one of our own."

Pulling him out of his chair, she meets his eyes, hands resting on his waist.

"We'll get through this," she finishes resolutely. "We _will_."

He heaves a sigh, staring at his wife with a small, incredulous smile. "You're a good egg, you know that?" he mumbles quietly, wrapping his arms around her. "Putting up with me."

"Mm," she acknowledges. "_Great_ egg is more like it. When things get scrambled, heated, fried…"

He lets out a quiet chuckle, resting his forehead against hers. "Taking lessons from Sammy?"

She flashes a quick smile. "_Please_. I've got more in my arsenal than henways."

With a soft sigh, she sobers, tracing the collar of his shirt. Raising her eyes to meet his, she speaks deliberately. "He always comes back, Ollie. Too skinny, dirty mouth, and three days shy of a woolly mammoth's beard, but he always comes back."

Oliver purses his lips, releasing her. "I hope so," he mutters with a final shake of his head. "God, I hope so."

Gesturing to the stairs, he backs away slowly. "Just going to poke my head in; say goodnight to the girls. See you upstairs?"

She nods. "See you upstairs," she echoes quietly.

Placing their cups in the dishwasher, she leans heavily against the countertop. Her gaze unwittingly sweeps to the fridge where a photo hangs, attached to a homemade magnet. The picture, from Thanksgiving two years earlier, showed Izzy and Julie flanking their parents in front of the fireplace, while Liv, grinning from ear to ear, rested on Sam's hip.

_Family photo!_ Izzy had cried, tearing through the house after dinner and rallying the troops for an impromptu photography session.

(It had taken four attempts to get the auto-shutter to work properly, and three more to get everyone smiling.)

A slow ache surfaces in her chest, and a quiet, earnest prayer slips from her lips.

For Sam. For Andy. For all of them.

_Bring him home safely._


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Another one written before we had details about S3, so let's pretend Sam and Andy head to his place after 2x13, shall we? Had "normal" begun immediately, the possibilities are endless.

One more day!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[you and me, walk on]<strong>

The bed is empty when he wakes.

Murmuring her name, he sweeps a hand across the mattress, flinching as his muscles protest. The bottom sheet is still warm, a fair indication that her absence is recent. He wonders where she's gone. He suspects…

_Strike that. _

The door is slightly ajar, and that means one thing.

Taking a deep breath, he heaves himself off the bed. He spares a thought for aspirin, choking back a groan as his knee buckles. He reaches blindly for the nightstand, floundering. His muscles are tight, the stiffness that comes from injury and inactivity, sleeping on his back and trying not to roll over. There's a brief second when he thinks it may have been better if Brennan finished the damn job, because pain like _this–_

He freezes, gripping the edge of the nightstand as images flash before him like directives.

He thinks about the bedspace next to him, that look on Andy's face when he stepped off the porch and into the snow. Thinks about the relief behind Oliver's commanding tone; three small, fair-skinned girls and Sunday night dinners. Thinks about his promises to Sarah; _We'll always have each other, little brother. _

(He thinks he should probably stop being so damn selfish.)

Taking a moment to steady himself, he exhales slowly. His good hand – a term he uses loosely – skates along the wall as he approaches the door, every motion calculated and deliberate as he steps into the hallway.

A soft glow from the guest bath tips him off, light filtering through the crack beneath the door. There's no movement to indicate occupancy, no rush of water, no squeaky faucets or showerhead–

Just silence.

(It's the silence that's worrisome. He can't help but think about the five stages of grief, of cool autumn nights and Andy retreating into herself.)

He reflects on the last few hours anxiously. She had been quiet that evening, driving him back to his house. Not wholly unexpected, but still unsettling by Textbook McNally standards.

"Normal doesn't mean taking my truck for joyrides," he had teased, hoping to crack that sorrowful facade when she slid into the driver's seat. "So don't get any ideas. Got it, Formula One?"

With a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she had quietly asked if he wanted to stop for food. His stomach had growled at her words, but the exhaustion had hit him, well and proper, as he slumped into the passenger seat. The last thing he wanted to do was stop anywhere short of his mattress, so he deemed his non-perishable pantry stock – dry pasta and sauce, single-servings of applesauce and fruit cocktail from the last time Sarah's kids had visited – suitable.

(Andy and someplace that wasn't an unheated, rundown farmhouse: That's all he wanted tonight.)

A half-hour later, she had catalogued his injuries with tender fingers, murmuring soft apologies under the bathroom's harsh, florescent lights. _We have all the time in the world to talk,_ she insisted, face serious as the grave. _You need to eat and sleep and heal._

He was suspicious of the neat dismissal, tidily swept under the rug, but he didn't have it in him to argue.

_Hindsight_, he thinks foolishly, _20/20._

He pauses before the bathroom door, weighing his options. With a quiet rap of his knuckles, he pushes the door open.

She's perched on the edge of the toilet seat, back to the door.

Her name slips from his lips, voice soft and concern swelling in his chest.

"Andy?"

* * *

><p>She waits until his breath evens out before slipping out of bed. Fleeing to the guest bathroom is probably a little extreme, but the tear ducts are overflowing, and she's not exactly a subtle crier.<p>

If she can get it all out now, she can put on her game face for tomorrow. With any luck, he'll be none the wiser.

Flipping the lid of the toilet down, she perches on the edge, a wad of tissue paper balled in her fist. A lump stakes residence in her throat, the emotion seizing her chest as she grits her teeth.

She doesn't want him to see her like this. _God,_ he's gone through enough tonight; he doesn't need to deal with her emotional fallout. She's not the one with a shattered wrist and three cracked ribs, body bruised and beaten, every movement aching and painful.

He hadn't wanted to tell her about the torture, but she knew with the time lapse, Brennan didn't limit himself to a hammer and a few rough punches. His history as an enforcer with the North End Guys - It told a different story. Violent tendencies don't simply disappear overnight.

_Waterboarding._

She sucks in a harsh breath, a shudder working its way through her spine as she rocks forward. She can't wrap her mind around it, not really. The idea that _he_...

(It's consuming, nearly debilitating. She feels responsible for her hand in it, guilty and anxious, and she can't shake this feeling...)

Blinking furiously, she wipes silent tears from her eyes and cheeks. Her shoulders shake uncontrollably, an involuntary reaction brought on by exhaustion and fear and how easily this could have ended differently. There's an overwhelming sense of relief she hasn't been able to process properly, and it's only now hitting her, fast and furious. The visual of Sam, stepping off the farmhouse porch - It plays on loop, unrelenting, seared into her brain.

A light rap on the door interrupts her reverie, and she stiffens automatically. Hinges groan as the door creaks open, and she hears - more than sees - him steady himself, fingers skittering across the wood paneling of the door.

She doesn't raise her head in acknowledgment. She keeps her back to the door, tossing her tissue in the wastebasket and rubbing her eyes with the back of her palm. Struggling to compose herself, she stares at her lap, hands twisting thoughtlessly.

"Andy?"

One hand flies to her mouth as she cringes. She doesn't want him to see her cry; doesn't want to be _that girl_. The fear is still there. The guilt. The hesitancy.

His voice is low, but the gentleness of his tone does her in.

* * *

><p>"Felt a little under the weather," she says at long last, throat muscles working furiously. "I'll be in soon."<p>

Her voice is a whisper, controlled and even, but she avoids his gaze. Her bare feet scuff the sandy tile, dark brown ponytail slipping over her shoulder, but she doesn't turn to face him.

_Nice try, copper,_ he thinks, setting his jaw.

"Is that why you're hanging out here?" he asks, his voice a quiet rumble. "The other bathroom is a lot closer."

She stumbles on her words. "I, um. I didn't want to wake you."

She shifts restlessly, arms locking defensively beneath her knees. Not for the first time, he wonders _who and where and how_, why she insists on reassurances when she's anything _but_ fine. His chest aches in a way that's not related to any physical injury.

_Don't be strong for me_, _sweetheart,_ he thinks silently, watching her. _We're both broken here._

He steps forward slowly, mindful of her tense shoulders and hidden face. Crouching next to her, he brings one hand to rest on her knee. He struggles to rearrange his features, the slight grimace that threatens to give him away. Even in the dimly-lit bathroom, he knows she'll see. Knows she'll take it to heart, punish herself for something she had little part in.

(It's the same reason he wore a shirt to bed. She saw the bruises, the abrasions – there was no hiding them from her – but she didn't need a reminder when she woke in the light of day, that's for damn sure.)

She shakes her head before he can speak, urging him to stand. Sliding off the seat, she wraps a hand under his elbow and lifts gingerly, helping him stand up straight.

"Sam," she murmurs, her voice wavering slightly. She meets his gaze for the first time, eyes pleading silently. "_Don't_...Don't strain yourself, please."

He notes the tear tracks first. The redness of her eyes, that bottom lip that looks as if it's been ripped to pieces, tiny, dotted marks from the imprint of sharp canines. He moves carefully, eyes locked on her face as he thumbs her cheekbone, gently wiping away the traces of tears. He can regret the timing, regret his selfishness and stupidity for calling her back, regret following Brennan out that door...

_Not you, _he thinks resolutely_. Never you._

He stares wordlessly for two, three beats. She shifts under his gaze, swallowing hard as she tilts her head toward the door.

"I'm fine, Sam." Her voice lowers marginally, words tapering off. "I'm sorry if I woke you..."

(Just like that, he's had enough.)

He slides one arm around her waist, pressing her close. Her body is soft and warm, the best balm for his injuries given the circumstances. Burying his face in her hair, he holds her. Not tightly or with any sort of force, but the intention is still there.

"Seriously," she maintains, pitch heightened as she squares her shoulders. Her tone is familiar, this professional edge that's meant to deceive, as if sitting alone in the guest bath is par for the course. "We can go back to bed, Sam; I'm good."

(He doesn't answer. Doesn't acknowledge her explanation.)

Exhaling quietly, he traces slow, gentle circles across her lower back.

"_Sam._.."

Her voice is strained, and she's fidgeting in his arms, struggling to keep it together. Still, she doesn't pull away, so he gives it time, holding her silently. If this is going to be a battle of Andy's placations versus his intuition, he's prepared. He'll stand here 'til kingdom come before he concedes.

The house is silent around them, the whistling wind now calm and unobtrusive. The only sound that penetrates his consciousness is their rhythmic breathing, the steady beat of their hearts. Closing his eyes, he presses his lips to her hair softly.

Her shoulders slump two long minutes later. She leans into him, and he feels the dampness against his shirt as tears stream silently down her face.

"I'm sorry," she says brokenly, her voice a shallow whisper. "I thought..."

"I know," he murmurs quietly. "Andy, _I know_."

(He was terrified, every second in that farmhouse, not for himself but the idea that _she–_ )

She buries her face in his neck as he repeats the same words, over and over.

"We're okay, sweetheart. We're okay."

* * *

><p>She can count on one hand the number of times she's cried while on the force. Deep, wracking, sobs that shook her body and her belief in something greater, that made her second-guess her preparedness to serve and protect.<p>

It happened twice because of her dad. Once, the night of the blackout.

(Tonight, the sobs are less audible - less guttural - but the emotion is no less paralyzing.)

Her whole body shudders, and Sam pulls her closer. She's careful of his chest, mottled with purple and red bruises. Painkillers can only do so much, and she doesn't want to exacerbate his condition. Still, his arms are more comforting than she could have imagined; his voice, a low, soothing hum in her ear.

"We went through this together, Andy. _You and me_. Different kinds of worry and pain and fear, sure, but we went through it together."

He stares at her with dark, sober eyes, hands gripping her waist. "Andy, listen to me. We're gonna _get_ _through it_ together, too."

She takes a slow breath, gazing at him silently before fisting a hand in his shirt.

(Moments like these, she wonders if understanding and acceptance is something you gain with age and perspective, or if this is another one of the hundred reasons Sam is different.)

Leaning forward, she rests her cheek against the warmth of his chest, lips grazing the soft cotton where his heart beats. _Maybe,_ she reflects quietly, _no going back means being honest. Being brave._

"Sam?"

He pulls back gently, eyes growing serious as he observes her expression.

"I'm so..." She swallows thickly, resting a warm hand against his nape. "I'm so glad you're safe."

He gazes at her, unblinking, before pressing his lips to her temple.

"Glad you're safe," he echoes quietly. "Glad you're _here, _Andy."


	12. Chapter 12

_You know I told you exactly what I was doing; I called you, I emailed you before I left... I mean, I couldn't contact you during the supsension; I didn't know how to do that. You know, I - I didn't know how _not_ to see you, okay?_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[Void.]<strong>

He remembers those months when protocol forbade anything more than professionalism; when a gaudy rock on her left hand and a blonde detective with a toothpaste-white smile were more than just stumbling blocks.

He remembers the days when his glove compartment was filled with spearmint gum; remembers the nights he spent with a tumbler of Scotch for company. Remembers the unacknowledged hope that bloomed in his chest when he caught her eye, and the sinking disappointment when she smiled and turned away.

(He cursed his stupidity, his reticence, and the distance he enforced with fleeting comments, "Yeah, well, like I said, you're not my type, right?" and "It was what it was." Because as much as he wanted to blame everyone – _anyone – _else, his own jackass tendencies take top honors.)

If his job and common law were good for anything, it was the reminder that Andy McNally was his rookie and partner, nothing else. Her laughter filled the cruiser and her brave, lion's heart took the field by storm, and for two years, it was hard to imagine anything worse.

(Well. He has since seen the error of his ways, that's for damn sure.)

The only thing worse than _not_ having Andy McNally?

Having her and losing her because of some stiff in a white shirt.

* * *

><p>His fingers hovers over the keypad, and he replays the message on his voicemail for the hundredth time tonight.<p>

_Hey, um. It's me. I'm probably not supposed to be calling, but it seemed like the better alternative… I just… I'm leaving, is the thing. Headed to North Bay for a few weeks, maybe longer. I think it's better that way; I'll take some time, and not be tempted to… _

(To what? he thinks bitterly. See me? Be normal?)

_Well, anyway. I'll call when I'm back in Toronto, I guess. I just wanted to say… Yeah. I'm thinking about you, and I hope you're doing well, and…_

(The pause, it's the pause that kills him.)

_Take care, alright?_

She's gone. Just like that, she's gone.

* * *

><p>Whatever sense of loneliness he thought he knew in the last two years has been aggravated, monumentally so. Now it's not theoretical. No, now the absence is<em> palpable<em>: The warm skin of her body and the heat of her kisses, quiet sighs and late-night giggles, the challenge in her eyes and the happiness of her smile...

He feels acutely the loss of it all.

(Give him a series of private jokes about fishing cabins, a caffeine-free week with Oliver, the sturdy overbite of an unruly German Shepherd… There's not much worse than having and losing, at least where she is concerned.)

Some of it is plain selfishness, he can admit it. But the other part?

(Those hours when he didn't know how loosely Brennan used the term "drop off," when his throat forcibly closed, fighting the intake of water… _Christ,_ all he thought about was her. How she might have been taken away already, and if he didn't see her again…)

Orders from white-shirts?

Peanuts, when you've looked death in its sinister, steel-grey eyes.

* * *

><p>It's hard not to be angry, <em>frustrated<em> by distance and circumstance. Her penchant for fleeing, her adherence to the rules, the idea that they've overcome two years of chaos and near-death experiences, of injuries and engagements, only to find themselves–

_Here._

(He's here, anyway. She could be in Timbuktu, for all he knows.)

It's almost worse than the beginning: Half a meter that may as well have been half a continent; disregarding with a casual pass of his palm, her warm brown eyes and the shiny asphalt of the Penny as his witness.

(She was _McNally_ that night.)

Two years and change, she's so much more.

* * *

><p>He lies restlessly on his bed.<p>

Not for the first time, he thinks about how empty it feels: How her heart tapped steadily against his chest, how her legs tangled messily in the top sheet. He thinks about the chill of her skin when she came bounding through JD's door; the flush of her cheeks and the fruity scent of her shampoo. He thinks about the contrast between hard muscle and soft planes, her body strong yet feminine, and the hollow ache that's lodged itself in his chest.

He tries to forget how much he misses her.

(It's all a mask.)

His finger hits the keypad again.

He settles into the pillow, phone cradled to his ear, listening to the sound of her voice.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Hi guys! It's been a while since my last post, due in large part to the demands of my personal life. I imagine you're not interested in the whos and whats and whys, but please know that I've greatly enjoyed your feedback and I look forward to resuming a more regular posting schedule. This chapter is the **first of four footnotes **(chapters 13-16), and I should be publishing a few more this weekend. I tried to post earlier, and it appears there have been a few kinks with the site itself... I apologize if you've received multiple notifications or have had trouble accessing these chapters. I'm going to try to stagger these posts (again), to ensure that they're uploading properly. Thanks for your patience!

* * *

><p>The following scene precedes 3.03 and the truck ride. Please enjoy!<p>

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue._

* * *

><p><strong>[through the looking glass]<strong>

He senses the light as it enters, the soft glow of early morning just beyond his closed lids. Beside him, Andy shifts with a hushed exhale, breath slow and rhythmic as she drapes one arm across his waist.

She is peaceful in sleep, save for the occasional mattress burrow. Gone are her worry lines and bravado, the tight set of her jaw and restless twitch of her fingers. He blinks once and inhales, mouth curling in an unmistakable grin. Lavender and clean linen fill his nostrils, the scent he associates with Andy's sheets and her warm, sleepy skin.

This sunrise routine packs a punch, still absurdly new. He thinks about it sometimes, how strange it is to wake with her beside him. Strange insofar that his "no plans" motto crumbles daily: A directive from another time, for another man.

Her body curls against him now, dark hair splashed across the pillow as he opens his eyes. He observes her carefully, blinking against the soft, yellow light that bathes the room. Her hand is heavy on his chest; her mouth drawn in a small, half-smile, and his conclusion is remarkably easy. He wouldn't really be bothered by plans for the foreseeable…

_(Lifetime.)_

The immediacy of _feeling_ is the most surprising thing, he realizes with a start. Lately he looks in the mirror and sees a stranger; lips victim to a perpetual tug, affection settling in the wrinkles beside his eyes. His words from yesterday come back to him. A rhetorical question, really, as much a prompt for her as it was a reminder to him.

_What's the rush?_

(Late at night, it's a mantra he repeats silently: Flash your hazards, proceed with caution, slow and steady wins the race. He knows one thing. He doesn't want to mess this up.)

Extricating himself from Andy's loose grip, he slides off the bed with a comical wriggle. She sighs once, her cheek finding a new section of pillow, and he envies the ease of her slumber. When he's awake, he is _awake_. It's a habit that has always served him well undercover, dark circles under his junkie eyes and early mornings in the warehouse, but right now, he could stand to fall asleep beside her, if only his body would let him.

These quiet moments, when they're not consumed by work and stress? Too few and far between. He wishes she wasn't compelled to apologize for yoga invitations and casual newspaper perusal, bursts of normalcy in their otherwise abnormal relationship. Six months ago or not, he really needs to stop flying out the door.

His hand freezes, the search for his jeans and discarded t-shirt temporarily halted. He pauses instead, observing her silent, sleeping form.

_Get a clue, buy a vowel, and pull your shit together, Swarek._

Mind made up, he strides purposefully toward the shower.

* * *

><p>When he exits the bathroom fifteen minutes later, he finds her seated on the bed, rubbing her eyes tiredly.<p>

"Hey," she greets with a bleary-eyed smile. She raises a hand in silent salute, brushing her hair into a ponytail with her fingers. "You're still here."

(The surprised tone affects him. It's a reminder that despite how well he _thinks_ he knows her, he really doesn't know anything at all.)

"You showered," she observes, yawning.

He nods, careful to keep his tone modulated. "Yeah, well. Big proponent of hygiene, McNally. Thought you would have learned that by now."

Her face brightens, and she throws off the sheet. Sliding off the bed, she glances at him over her shoulder. "Did you, um… Find everything okay?"

"Yup," he answers dutifully, his words a slow drawl. "Yeah, great."

(Much to his chagrin, his glaring moments of idiocy aren't limited to his twenties.)

She stares at him, slightly suspicious. "O-kay..."

Clearing his throat, he rubs the back of his neck, silently wishing he had changed inside the bathroom. Not that he's shy; the furthest thing from it, actually, but watching Andy watching him with this bemused expression–

"Wondered if, uh, maybe you wanted to drive into work together today," he says hurriedly, scooping his jeans off the floor. He thrusts his right leg in, glancing at her expectantly.

Her eyebrows draw together in surprise. The next moment she smiles, slow and thoughtful. "_Yeah_. Yeah, okay. That sounds great."

"Good," he replies, nodding in assent. "Good."

(He makes a mental note to pick up a dictionary this week. Find some appropriate synonyms. Or, you know, learn a couple new words. For reasons beyond his comprehension, he's regressed thirty years.)

"Coffee?" he continues, the question in his voice. It's an afterthought, a means to fill the silence. "As in, should I make some while you're in the shower?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Are you actually asking me that? _For real?_"

"Well, I'll take that as a _yes_," he says teasingly, his shoulders relaxing as he finds solid footing. This spot, this place where they razz and banter? It's familiar. Comfortable.

"Iced," she instructs emphatically, pointing a finger at him. "Do you feel that sun coming through the windows? The heat index is going to skyrocket today." She muses for a moment, cogs and wheels turning. "Okay, actually, I'm not sure I have an ice tray in the freezer. But dig around, and I'm sure you can find something."

Issuing a blinding smile, she bounds over to him and pulls him down for a kiss. "And if not, we'll stop for something cold. Summertime and the living's easy."

He slides a hand across her waist, fingers skimming the hemline of her tank. "Yeah, okay."

"And Sam?" she calls as she skates toward the bathroom, ponytail bouncing. Her smile widens, and he finds himself reciprocating without a second thought.

Her eyes sparkle, and she crosses her arms across her chest, smirking. "_Thanks_. I was worried there for a second. Thought I might have to get a detective's badge, start wearing more purple."

"Beat it, smartass," he replies in amusement, hooking a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. Cocking a brow, he levels his gaze at her. "We're leaving in a half-hour."

* * *

><p>He's never given much thought to mornings. <em>Six months<em> has been anchored in his brain, dead weight that kept him stationary and reluctant to move. Reluctant to make a mistake.

Now? Well, there's an upside to progress. There's something behind those teasing words, something genuine and warm in her eyes.

(He'll let Jerry down easily.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** This chapter is the **second of four footnotes **(chapters 13-16). I tried to post earlier, and it appears there have been a few kinks with the site itself... I apologize if you've received multiple notifications or have had trouble accessing these chapters. I'm going to try to stagger these posts (again), to ensure that they're uploading properly. Thanks for your patience!

* * *

><p><em>"Table open?"<em>

_"Yeah, twenty bucks a rack."_

_"C'mon, you can do better than that."_

_"Depends_. _Who's your partner?"_

_"Him."_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own_ Rookie Blue. (_I am, however, trying to make good on my "drabbles" description.)

* * *

><p><strong>[Alpine]<strong>

.

.

.

Her first thought?

_Trouble_.

Her brain has been awake too many hours; body running on adrenaline. It's making her see things, remnants of vivid dreams and on-shift conversations with Chris surfacing in detail.

She has to blink twice: Waffle-weave thermal and days-old stubble; a loose, carefree stance like he hasn't spent the last fifteen years with hands planted on his belt, intimidating the hell out of suspects.

A torrent of emotion builds in the wake of his smile, her heart thudding with something more than fear. Projections, mirages, whatever… They don't smile like that.

_Trouble. _

Her second thought, too.

.

.

.

_A button down,_ he notes, mouth twisting wryly. _Button down and silver studs._

(Not until she lines up the cue does he notice the hair clip.)

_Well, _he concedes generously,_ Maybe the dress code is preppier in Appleton bars._

Memories flash, lightening fast: John sweeps and microscopic tanks; blackouts and that faded, white sports bra. Tight, black fabric and Gabe's dry mouth; all her smooth, tan skin. Legs for days at Vestibule, and the way she scampered away in those heels...

He looks again, slowly–

Wide, cheshire grin; his chest full like something's been missing.

_Never looked so damn good._


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** This chapter is the **third of FOUR updated footnotes **(chapters 13-16). I tried to post these last night, and it appears there have been a few kinks with the site itself... I apologize if you've received multiple notifications or have had trouble accessing these chapters. I'm going to try to stagger these posts to ensure that they're uploading properly. Thanks for your patience!

* * *

><p><em>"You wanna talk about it?"<em>

_"Nope."_

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue_.

This one goes out to dcj and Mamaverd - You may recognize a few sections ;)

* * *

><p><strong>[Exposed]<strong>

Her body feels tired when she wakes, that heavy drag of double-shifts and early morning stakeouts and several hours in the pool, all at once. She's thankful for the mid-week respite, that today is her Saturday, and she can delay her usual morning routine. Small miracles.

Shifting underneath the duvet, she closes her eyes against the bright stream of sunlight that filters through the window. With one hand, she stretches toward a familiar pillow, eyes popping open when she comes up empty.

_He's not here. _

With a quiet exhale, she turns her eyes to the ceiling. Fingers comb through her messy, tangled hair, and she fidgets, uncomfortable with this too-empty, too-silent bedroom. She wonders if Jerry called again, his rally cry that sends Sam shooting out the door for an early-morning sparring match. Their workouts have become routine, and she doesn't mind, not usually, but today–

Silence reminds her a lot of the beginning, mornings that began with cold cereal and walking herself to school. Evenings at home alone, aimlessly flipping TV channels. In retrospect, it was the calm before the proverbial storm; those late nights she listened for the scrape of the key against the lock, the jarring and unavoidable herald of her dad's return home. He never could get the door the first time, blurred vision and the jerky shake of his hands.

She wonders, sometimes, if her chattiness wasn't an attempt to fill an unmistakable void: Help her dad forget that someone was missing from the kitchen table.

Her mind whirs with the memories, and she forces herself to take a breath. She thinks about yesterday, remembering her mo- _Claire's_ surprised tone as two syllables rolled off her tongue.

_Andy._

(It's a name that's too familiar for a stranger to use.)

* * *

><p>She's grateful for Sam, for his quiet acceptance last night.<p>

She stopped him in the parking lot, a quiet plea to just _sit_. The silence in the cab would have been oppressive, a long ride home with the dull hum of the radio and the concern in his eyes. His watchfulness is unbridled, a quiet inventory that makes her heart constrict and fill in turn. There are moments when its grating, the unspoken scrutiny: His face so much like a map, a hundred colors and symbols and gradiations.

(Still, she didn't send him away. After two years, she's starting to decipher his legend, keys and insight into all the reasons _why_.)

When her body pulls in eight different directions, he manages to ground her. She needed to process this _thing_, the mess of today and the hollow ache that resides in her chest cavity, but like all those months ago at the Mermaid Lounge, his presence is backup.

His truck bed may not have been the most ideal location, but it's there all the same, an open invitation. In the night air, she breathes more easily, eyes fixed on a sky that burns pink in late summer.

_You and me, Toronto. We're both a little hazy._

He asked once if she wanted to talk. Her reply was quick, cutting, and he didn't push it. For her part, she bit off another piece of apple flip, the motion of chewing giving her purpose.

Still, his words hung in the air. Now she lies quietly in bed, repeating the sentiment to herself.

_You won't get rid of me without a fight._

He was remarkably intuitive, the way he tucked her head underneath his chin when they returned to her apartment, hands skating down the length of her arms. Soft pressure, fingers moving to an unsung melody, lulling her to sleep with gentle strokes. It was enough to remind her that he was there. That he wasn't going anywhere. She dwells briefly on the irony, that since the beginning, she hasn't been the least bit inclined to sneak out – That her fears include _his_ departure, not her sudden desire to buck a life-long pattern and _stay._

She reflects on how easily Sam is prepared to shoulder burden, how he didn't head for the hills or back her into a corner. Just waited patiently, hand on her knee until she hoisted herself up from the truck bed. And later, a word or two of reassurance, the warmth of his body pressed against hers–

He anticipates the remedy before she can diagnose the problem.

* * *

><p>Shifting beneath the sheet, she stretches lazily. Her gaze falls to a scrap of paper on her nightstand, a blaze of white against the wood grain, and she smiles.<p>

_**Back soon.**_

No morning escapes to the Barn, then.

She feels the corners of her mouth tug when she considers Sam's thoughtfulness, the half-sheet of paper that plays proxy in his absence. No frills or fluff – he's no more verbose on paper than he is in real life – but the sentiment is there, a calm assurance of his presence.

_A note_, she repeats silently, _He left a note_.

(She can practically hear Traci laughing in her ear, but in the age of text messages and general independence, it's a nice gesture, okay?)

Two words, familiar black scrawl, but she takes away one thing: _There when it matters._

Her stomach growls impatiently, and she sighs, regretting the lone apple flip that substituted for dinner. It wasn't particularly warm, flaky, or appetizing when they picked it up at the service station, and eating it eighteen hours after purchase? Not her brightest idea. Sliding out of bed, she slips into the kitchen, padding quietly across the hardwood floor. Opening a cabinet, she pulls out a mixing bowl and cutting board before rifling for ingredients in the pantry.

He finds her like that when he re-renters the apartment, spare key dangling from his fingers. Hearing the muffled click of the deadbolt, she turns to face him.

"Hey," he greets, blowing out a quiet breath. His smile is familiar, a minute curve of his lips that recalls henways and locker room chats. His mouth is a welcome flare in the darkness, and it warms her.

"Hi," she echoes, eyes soft and voice softer.

He's juggling bakery coffees, two cups nestled in a cardboard carrier. The logo is familiar, and for a moment she stands there, unable to drag her eyes away.

They've only had it twice before, two separate occasions when she was out of coffee grounds, and the corner bakery was a far preferable alternative to the grocery store. They don't do many couple-y things, she and Sam, but she thinks about walking to the bakery, her fingers twined with his and how nice it was. _Normal._

(She could use a dose of normal, that much is true.)

He steps forward, pressing the cup into her hand. She feels the scrape of his stubble against her cheek as his lips brush hers.

"Morning," he intones, low and familiar. "Latte," he adds as an afterthought.

She inhales the familiar aroma of chai tea and steamed milk, and she smiles. Smiles because he knows a thousand things about her, off-duty drink preferences included.

(Preferences her mother wouldn't know. _Couldn't_ know, she acknowledges with a flash of sadness.)

They finish making breakfast that way, slow sips from cardboard cups and the warm graze of his skin.

* * *

><p>As her knife scrapes against the stoneware plate, she catches Sam's eye from across the table. The ends of her mouth curl in unmistakable affection, and she feels inexplicably lighter.<p>

(She worries, sometimes, that she's not there for him. Her fears are laid bare in the light of day, and she wonders if her late-night concerns seemed more like self-involvement and clinginess. That idea gives her pause, staccato rhythm thumping in her chest, but then he meets her gaze, and...)

She thinks this idea of _making time_ – morning coffee and the newspaper and homemade waffles – makes a difference. Narrows the gap of time and space, the distance between rookie and TO, between friends and partners and whatever else lies ahead. They haven't applied any labels, not yet, but these quiet, little moments? They make a world of difference when it comes to communication and patience, and right here, right now…

She feels it, this connection to know and share and be_._

He takes her plate when they finish, and when all the dishes are rinsed and loaded, he spins her around, fingers looped around the elastic of her pajama pants as he tugs her forward.

His next movement is anything but perfunctory. With deliberate intention, he meets her eyes, and she swallows once, overwhelmed by what she sees.

Cupping her face in his palm, he thumbs her cheekbone, kissing slowly into her mouth.

It's a lot of things, that kiss, and she has trouble deciphering it, but there are a few unmistakable threads–

_There when it matters, _she repeats silently.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** This chapter is the **fourth of FOUR updated footnotes **(chapters 13-16). I tried to post these last night, and it appears there have been a few kinks with the site itself... I apologize if you've received multiple notifications or have had trouble accessing these chapters. This site has been an utter pain!

* * *

><p>The following scene predates 3.07. Enjoy!<p>

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue_.

* * *

><p><strong>[…is for the way you look at me]<strong>

She's starting to notice things. Like, super-specific things.

Last Tuesday morning, ten minutes before they were set to leave for the Barn, he disappeared down the stairs and returned with an umbrella from his truck cab. He came back up, soaked leather jacket and hair plastered to his forehead. He handed it to her with a brief warning not to open it in the apartment. He wasn't about to tempt fate, didn't want a partner with seven years bad luck. His tone was teasing, brow furrowed in a way that made his mouth lift at the corners, but still…

(Okay, she _had_ mentioned that her umbrella was in her locker. But it's only rain, and they're police officers, and she's never been one to care about wet strands or frizz before a shift. And he was so nonchalant about it, head tipped back against the foyer wall as he counted down lazily, tapping his wristwatch. _60 seconds before the bus leaves, McNally_.)

On Friday night, they had a fight about movies, website of the closest rental kiosk occupying her laptop screen. They flipped a coin for it; he won and celebrated with a single-arm pump that would have made Rocky proud. If his bout of goofiness hadn't shocked her into silence, she would have called him on it.

Still, he came back with a tub of frozen yogurt, unbidden. And even if he played the gesture off, signature grumpy scowl and low drawl–

_Appreciate this moment. First and last time. Teenage girl behind the counter looked at me like I was crazy, grown man with an action movie and– _He paused, spluttering._ 'FroYo' isn't even a real word. You know that, right?_

(Grump or not, he still bought it. He then spent the better part of the evening with his arm slung around her shoulders, gingerly rubbing her neck, so... She's not sure who won, actually.)

She catalogues it, every minute action that trips her nervous system: the way he fixes her coffee, the way he drums the steering wheel when the radio is on, the way his forearm curls around the pillow while he sleeps. Each is its own reveal, tiny clues that unravel the mystery of Sam Swarek. Some are surprising: safety razor (not electric), and how he knew an angel food recipe off the top of his head. Some are less surprising: hambulances and henways; the way his palm slides across her jaw when he looks at her with dark, burning eyes. With each passing day, she feels the glow spreading in her veins, that warm, familiar feeling when his hand finds the back of her chair at the Penny or when he kisses her against his truck.

Lately she's been pulled in five directions, the words on the edge of her heart and the tip of her tongue. Her level of happiness has been astronomical, and she finds herself daydreaming far more frequently than she's comfortable with. She's half-waiting for the moment when her brain starts singing, Julie Andrews-style: _Sometime in my youth or childhood…_

Like any good copper, her emergency preparedness makes frequent cameos. She's taken extra-care to avoid waterfronts, coffeehouses, municipal parks, fountains, swingsets, and any other locales that could conceivably conclude a RomCom montage. Taylor Swift and her damn, catchy, bubblegum beats have been banished from her iPod. (She was, um, only listening to them ironically, anyway.) She checks the box on her tax returns with relish, wishing she could add _single and loving it_; _yeah!_ And if she was using her Amazon account to browse for a birthday that's not for another two and a half months, what of it? Short of twenty ounces of coffee and a bow on _her_ head, it takes time to find Swarek-friendly gifts. She's a planner, okay?

She's not going to be one of those girls, not with him.

(She's reluctant to admit she might be one of those girls already.)

* * *

><p>Her gaze swivels to the left, to Sam in the driver's seat, tongue poking through the skin of his cheek and hand rubbing his jaw wearily.<p>

"Hey," she says softly, palm dropping to his thigh and squeezing lightly. "You okay?"

He glances at her, eyes softening as he meets her gaze. "I'm good."

Her shoulders relax, and they both smile, genuine and sincere and _happy_. His right hand moves from the steering wheel to cover hers, familiar grip and calloused palm. There is an unspoken strength there – One she's only beginning to recognize.

(She doesn't know _when_ she's going to say it, only that she _is_ going to stay it.)

_Soon._


End file.
